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A Lifes Art

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I begin as a mould of clay,
slowly chiseled into a form
Perfection is the artist's goal,
Which strips me of my humanity

A smile is drawn on my face,
A characters enforced
My true self is lost within the lines
And defies the purity of truth

My legs and arms are what comes next,
Like a body to to an introduction
And soon I will be free at last
To write my own conclusion

I begin to play a rhapsody:
Each note a symbol for a memory
The music sheet begins to decay
As my instrument is buried




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